


In This Garden

by straightforwardly



Category: The Rose of Segunda (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Bisexual Character, F/M, First Kiss, Giddy & Overwhelming Joy, Love Confessions, Rash Decision-Making, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28051665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straightforwardly/pseuds/straightforwardly
Summary: “Ah. Well, I don’t have your faith, sweet sister—or should I say your lack of it? Of course the king will choose you. How could he not, when you eat like a fairy and faint at the sight of a single bee?”The aftermath of the handkerchief incident goes a little differently. Frederique’s route, day four canon divergence.
Relationships: Frederique di Parisi/Iolanthe di Parisi
Kudos: 10





	In This Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately after the CG scene at the lake.
> 
> For reference, these are the the days 1-4 choices I was working with for this fic: scholar background, walked with Charlotte, chose the woods as her favorite part of the grounds, pretended to faint when she saw the bee, played croquet with Sofia, sabotaged the tea party, was against Frederique using the handkerchief to cause mischief.
> 
> This is very much just some self-indulgence dealing with how very much my id Frederique’s route was, with a dash of my intense fondness for Sofia and Charlotte.

Awkwardness hung heavy in the air between them as they slowly made their way back from the lake. Iolanthe misliked it, greatly—there had always been such ease between them, that anything else felt horribly unnatural.

Thus, in the hopes of regaining their former levity, she spoke as lightly as she could, saying, “With the handkerchief—I’ve changed my mind. You can do what mischief you like with it—only,” she added, as the thought occurred to her. “I do ask that you leave the Lady Charlotte out of it. She is a sweet girl—too sweet for such teasing.”

“Lady Charlotte?” Frederique said, startled. “Is it _her_ you favour, then?” 

“What?” 

_This_ she had not expected. Flustered and confused, Iolanthe could disguise neither—particularly not when she remembered his asking a similar question about _Lady Sofia_ the night before. 

“No—no, that isn’t what I meant. It is only—she is so very kind, and the others are so very _unkind_ to her. You should have heard what she said to me when we walked together the other day! —I only thought she deserves better than to be lumped in together with the likes of Albertine and Francesca.”

“Are you—certain?” There was an awkwardness to his tone, though it vanished as he added, “You know that you needn’t ever fear judgment from me—I hope you know it.”

 _You are perfect_ , echoed the memory of Frederique’s voice from the night before, and suddenly something inside her eased, all awkwardness and confusion fading away. 

“Of course—of course. In all the world, you are the only one whose judgement I never fear, no matter what I say, or think, or do, or—feel.” 

Despite herself, her voice broke a little. Her brother’s hand covered hers, squeezing it with a gentle grip. 

Carefully, he asked, “So… you _do_ favour women, then?” Then: “No, ignore me. I should not press so—particularly not if it distresses you.”

She shook her head. “No, you needn’t worry. I…” She exhaled. “...To some extent. Enough so that Mother felt the need to… dissuade the possibility of any friendships between myself and my peers.” 

Try as she might, she could not keep a swell of bitterness rising in her chest at the thought. Yet, feeling her brother stiffen with familiar anger on her behalf, she added quickly, “It is alright, Frederique. I… understand her reasoning. Besides, I’m not certain that ‘favour’ is entirely the correct term for it. I would also not be unhappy, married to a man—not if it were the right man, anyway—if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Frederique didn’t look appeased. In fact, he looked as though he hardly knew what part of her statement he wanted to object to first. 

“Understand—! I know how isolated you were—can only _imagine_ how lonely. For our mother to subject you to that—a life without friendship or companion—based only on suspicion and her own ambition! That’s—”

“Frederique, please,” said Iolanthe, squeezing his arm. “It’s alright.”

“It is _not_ ,” he said, almost sulkily. But he left it at that, submitting, as ever, to her wishes. 

They were nearly to the castle. Very little sunlight remained, and Iolanthe knew it was past time for them to go inside and prepare themselves for dinner. Suddenly, the thought of returning to the rest of the party—and with it, a return to that ridiculous simpering act—made her feel very tired. She’d had some fun with it, true, over the past few days, sneaking in her wit and mischief where she could, but… 

She hesitated, then turned to her brother.

“What do you say to one more turn, before we go in? —Nowhere far, just through the topiary.”

He brightened. “And risk Bastien’s wrath?”

“Why do you sound so pleased at the thought?” Iolanthe exclaimed, trying to sound scolding—though the effect was marred by it being accompanied with her peals of laughter. He grinned at her, and she grinned back, and for the first time since they’d left the lake, things felt normal between them again.

Though she knew it was only delaying the inevitable, she could not help but feel lightened as they turned from the palace and headed deeper into the garden. Perhaps she’d only spared herself the burden of her act only a few minutes longer—but what a difference those few minutes made to her spirit! 

What little sunlight remained fell away as they entered the topiary, cut off by the high hedges. It felt a different place entire in the dark than it had been during the day—all strange shapes and oddly cast shadows, its tamed bit of nature turning into something more unnatural than Nature herself could ever create. Gravel crunched beneath their feet, the only break in the sudden hushed quiet all around them. 

Her mother had warned her, in oblique terms, about what sorts of things could occur in places like this at night, and had pressed on her in no uncertain terms to _never_ accept a gentleman’s invitation to escape the stifling heat of a ball with a walk in the garden. 

Well, there was no ball going on now, and it was she who’d issued the invitation—and this was no common gentleman, but her very own brother.

The reasoning wouldn’t satisfy her mother, she knew. Too much the letter of the law, and not of the spirit. She’d never liked it when Iolanthe tried to outwit her.

Frederique soon broke the silence. In a light tone, he said, “I’m a little surprised by your choice in our walk, dear sister. Didn’t you proclaim your love for the woods to the prince the other day? I’d think a topiary the very opposite of that.” 

“It is,” she acknowledged. “But the topiary is closer—and more acceptable, at this hour, should we be found here.”

He frowned, at that. “Right,” he said, subdued. Instantly, she regretted her choice of words. She hadn’t meant to remind him of all the expectations placed upon them, not when she knew that they weighed on him even more than they did on her. 

“Duty” may have been a cold comfort, but she _did_ find some reassurement in it, as meagre as it was. Frederique never had. 

They walked on in silence, but Iolanthe hardly minded. She didn’t need her brother to entertain her. The familiarity of his presence—the warmth of his side against hers, her hand tucked in his arm—those things were enough. 

Eventually, though, the silence did break as Frederique spoke. He wasn’t somber, precisely, but there was little of his usual liveliness as he said, “What do you think of your chances? With the prince, I mean.” 

“I hardly know,” said Iolanthe. “I haven’t ruined things yet, I think, but there are some aspects I could have done better in—played croquet worse, for instance.”

“Ah. Well, I don’t have your faith, sweet sister—or should I say your lack of it? Of course the king will choose you. How could he not, when you eat like a fairy and faint at the sight of a single bee?” 

Somehow, she felt both amused and stung. “It is not as though I _like_ doing those things. Well. I suppose the fainting was a little funny.” 

He snorted. “That it was—though not as amusing as your claiming to not have eaten a bite in three weeks!”

She laughed. “Poor Frederique—you’d certainly would have had an easier time carrying me back, had that been the truth!”

“No—none of that, my Minette. I told you: I was honored.”

Iolanthe felt her cheeks flush; for a moment, she didn’t quite know how to look at him. But only for a moment. Something overcame her—she knew not what—and she found herself pulling her hand away from his arm and turning to face him.

“Frederique.” Her voice was quiet, all teasing faded away. Her own heart pounded in a staccato beat within her chest. “Tell me. Do… do you _want_ me to marry the prince?”

She hardly knew why she asked; could not acknowledge it, not even to herself. Not yet. All she knew was that the thought of him thinking of her and the prince as a match pained her, and his praising her for her machinations in that direction pained her even more. 

His gaze flickered, a shadow passing over his face. Then, with a burst of emotion that surprised even her, he answered—

“Of course not—never! How could you even think to ask that?” Growing more agitated, his voice becoming thick, “What I want— _all_ I want, is for you to be happy. Whether that’s as queen, or—”

“Being queen could never make me happy.” 

Iolanthe reached up, brushing his cheek with her knuckles, and at the first touch of her hand, he grew still, as though he’d suddenly ceased to breathe.

“There are people who I like here,” she continued, a little breathless herself. She didn’t know what had come over her—this sudden rush of recklessness, after performing her duty all this while. Yet it made her feel heady and sweet, and she could not regret it, even as she felt herself barrel towards something irrevocable. 

“Lady Charlotte is sweetness herself; Lady Sofia’s intelligence is refreshing, and I think she could be a dear friend, if I allowed her the chance; and though I do not know if I _like_ him, precisely, I do believe that the poor prince is just as trapped as the rest of us. But, Frederique…” She swallowed, and dared to meet his eyes. “There is but one person in this world who makes me truly happy, and that is you.”

Her words strummed through the air around them. For a moment she feared that she hadn’t made herself clear enough—or that she _had_ , and that for all her faith, she had stumbled across a breaking point in his acceptance of her—that the way he looked at her, his promises of devotion, the teasing asides, his _were you not my sister, I would marry you myself_ , meant not what she thought it had—

Then he made a strangled sound. “Minette—my dear Minette—” 

His hand rose to cup her cheek, and she rose too, and with a gasp that sounded half like a sob and which could have come from either of them, or both—they were kissing, sudden, passionate, desperate. His arm wrapped around her waist, and hers around him, fingers clutching at the back of his neck.

It took her too long to realize that her brother was speaking, the brief pauses between each kiss peppered with endearments—repetitions of her name—promises and expressions of adoration. Lost in a heady daze, overwhelmed by the closeness of his warmth, she scarcely heard any of it, and doubted that he understood much more than she of what he said; at the same time, the constant sound of his voice, so familiar and dear, only made the fire within her grow.

“You won’t marry now,” he said wildly, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “You can’t—not after—”

“No,” she agreed, equally giddy. “Never, never, not unless it’s—” 

Despite everything, she still couldn’t quite bring herself to finish that sentence, but by the way her brother looked at her, she knew he understood.

“I—I know it’s sudden, but I do have some money set aside, just in case. We _could_ go, right now—leave everything behind—that is, if that’s what you wanted.”

“Frederique!” She laughed, the sudden opportunity to tease grounding her in a way which nothing else could. She still felt wild with joy and hope, but— “Don’t tell me you’ve been _planning_ for this!” 

“Not—” To her utter delight, he actually flushed. “Not this, specifically! But I thought, if you wanted an escape—I should be ready to give that to you. In whatever form you wished.”

“I _do_ wish,” she said. “And I wish for you.”

And for all the fever which had swept over her, she knew her words to be earnest and true. What need did she have for a prince, when her brother stood here by her side? Already, her mind was spiralling with plans: about where they could go, how they could manage it, what they could do to gain themselves the most time possible before their absence was noted—perhaps she could feign illness, to miss dinner and thus steal that time to pack, and then—

She met his gaze, and her mind fell silent as she saw her own overwhelming happiness reflected there. She leaned in, as did he, and their lips brushed with a kiss that was gentle, sweet, and warm. 

“Together, then,” he murmured as they parted, and she promised, “Always.”


End file.
